


styx and stones

by panoptykon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Tragedy & Angst, M/M, Non-Canon-Typical Hopeful Ending, decorum??? idk her, gerry is NOT a monster manual, graphic descriptions of supernatural drowning, gratuitous purple passages, it's v sad i'm sorry but it gets better, kayaking but make it hellish, sir that's my emotional support tonal whiplash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23755510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panoptykon/pseuds/panoptykon
Summary: Tim would be lying if he said that the whole scene is the most disturbing thing he has ever seen, but it is certainly not a comfort that water sports would, in the normal circumstances, grant him. Still, some posthumous rowing never hurt anyone more than whatever it was that had killed them. Probably.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Tim Stoker, but it's not super explicit - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	styx and stones

Whatever is going on by this particular riverside can _not_ be called kayaking weather. To be perfectly honest, it probably can not be called weather in the first place. And its locus probably shouldn’t be referred to as “riverside” or “river”, as it is more of a thanatoid quagmire. The coastal mountains cast sharp and pointed shadows over the supernaturally sludgy vastness. The clearances are illuminated by the browbeating canopy whose sinister hue brings to mind not exactly revolting anger, but rather an apathetic despair. The place’s very essence calls for angry, though. Which is probably why Tim Stoker has found himself at the edge of the mud, with a pair of ominously cracked oars in his hands and a rachitic wooden kayak proudly displayed before him.

‘Alright, you ready? Any final landlubber musings?’ The question is innocent enough and could easily be interpreted as playful banter, but the expression on the old man’s ( _Char, he said his name was_ ) face reveals the sort of gleeful cruelty that would put even Elias Bouchard to shame.

Tim would be lying if he said that the whole scene is the most disturbing thing he has ever seen, but it is certainly not a comfort that water sports would, in the normal circumstances, grant him. Still, some posthumous rowing never hurt anyone more than whatever it was that had killed them. Probably.

He looks down at his favourite jeans. Death hasn’t affected his ‘blowing up the dumb skin circus’ attire, which is very much good news. Tim might lack a particularly strong metaphysical stance, but he was damned if he was going to face his demise looking anything less than his best. Too bad his crochet crop top is going to get stained any minute now.

After the careful assessment of his appearance, he decides that no more musings are in fact in order. It’s not that he’s not fond of reflection; for all Tim’s preexistent breeziness, he has a tendency to take introspection further than it would be considered healthy. For all his anger-fuelled impulsiveness, he is more than ready to use thorough research to cope with various predicaments. Tim has always been curious, but his curiosity never even as much as grazed the question of life after death. Not due to some deep-rooted, repressed fear, but due to an utmost indifference. Although Tim’s intellectual aesthetic matches the Dionysian energy of baroque, he’s had no time for memento mori. Why would he be scared of dying, if there are countless more interesting things to be scared of? So when his state of the art explosion took his life, but apparently not his consciousness, the anger that had been boiling up in him for years gave way to a quiet acceptance devoid of any anticipation. Now, he can tell he really died, and there is nothing more to it. And if the great beyond consists of a slightly hellish morass, traversable only by means of a crumbling kayak, so be it. Defiance has been wearing him out - time for some well-deserved compliance.

‘Definitely, I’m dying to have some fun at last.’ Tim aims for a dry delivery, but can’t help being visibly amused by his own wordplay.

‘Now that’s what I like to hear!’ The joke seems to go over Char’s head, but it’s fine, as Tim’s current target audience is himself and himself only. ‘Right, the division of tasks is pretty straightforward. You do the rowing, I do the guiding. Can’t have it any other way, I’m afraid!’

Tim had long ago learned that anyone who would attempt to outcheerful him was probably evil incarnate. There was no doubt in his mind that that is precisely what is happening here - Char is not to be trusted. And yet, he has a desperate need not to resist for once.

If only the kayak were as keen to be compliant as he is. Tim was hoping that the falling apart vibe has been more form than matter, but apparently, his only means of travel has no intention to cooperate. As soon as he enters it, he watches one of the planks on the side break and make its way into the swamp, getting devoured immediately. Tim didn’t think his guide’s grin could get any wider, but apparently his impending second doom just really does it for Char.

The doom is not as impending, as it turns out. The fallen plank debacle is well on its way to become the most formidable part of the journey. It is not pleasant, make no mistake, but it is… smooth. The muddy texture seems accommodating to both Tim’s dubious proficiency and the kayak’s fickle condition. The carmine sky is, in all likelihood, threatening only on the surface, and there is no adverse fauna that would throw the magnificent watercraft off course. In fact, there is no flora either. The river seems to have disseminated enough to devour any traces of the coast. Only the mud and the sky remain.

‘Where are we headed, then?’ Tim asks nonchalantly enough, after being given another portion of directions.

‘It’s not so much about where, as it is about how!’

‘If you are going to be cryptic, at least make sure you improve your lines a bit, that was reaaally tacky.’ Tim raises his eyebrows teasingly, but does not throw in his signature smirk. A lighthearted rib is innocent enough, but he is not about to give him genuine fondness.

‘Oh, I think you’ll find that I’m not one for being cryptic.’ Char’s chuckle oozes bliss at this point. ‘As for tacky... Welll, I might be, but can you blame me? I like to think I was one of the firsts to pull off the Affably Evil. Not my fault I’m such an icon. Know your roots, love.’

‘What, I’m supposed to thank you, or pity you, for manning the forefront of uninspired tropes?’ Tim’s scoff is somehow eclipsed by his strained breathing. He must have done something truly horrible to deserve single-handedly rowing both himself and his grotesque guide towards… what, exactly?

‘Honestly, some mortals have the weirdest obsession with originality, what’s that about? As if being derivative were somehow the end of the world. You people say you value community and togetherness, but scowl at anyone who dares to draw inspiration from others. Some things are just good, and should be perpetuated. I’m just an example, though an impeccable one.’  
‘It’s not about that. It’s just that your vibes are disgusting. So, _how_ are we headed, then?’

‘See for yourself.’

It wasn’t clear to him why the lack of fellow tormentees hadn’t surprised him, but it didn’t matter now. The poor tortured souls were very much there, clinging to their kayaks in desperate attempts not to be claimed by the muddy furnace. And as Tim is getting closer and closer, he has no doubt in his mind that he is about to join them in this futile struggle.  
‘I don’t like to call it a playground, that would be patronizing. Would it be patronizing? You have to admit, it’s quite accurate.’ Char tries his professional best to contain his excitement, but the boiling pool of agonized canoeists clearly has been the pièce de résistance of the whole ordeal.

‘What. Is it.’ Tim asks, more out of propriety than anything else. He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

‘Just a bit of fun. You have one job: don’t drown. I mean, I’d obviously rather you drown, but I don’t want you complaining about the lack of agency here. Although there’s none. You’ll surely drown. No one has ever not drowned. It is all designed for you to drown. Good luck! You won’t have it.’ And with that, Char vanishes from Tim’s kayak, taking with him that menacing grin and any ounce of functionality the boat had, up to this point, possessed.

Tim tries and tries to retain his balance, knowing that a mere brush with the kayak’s surroundings will send him straight into the arms of that thick, murky slime. The boat is actually dithering, forcing him to furiously clutch both of his palms to the sides, but the more firmly he clutches, the more of the wood chips off. The kayak is crumbling, torturously slowly, and Tim lets out a strangled cry. What exactly is he trying to accomplish here? It’s just like Char said: it is designed for him to drown. He remembers one of the particularly heated conversations with Elias.

_‘I’ll come back when you’re feeling more… reasonable.’ ‘Then I guess I’ll see you in hell.’_

It’s a high time he starts living up to that promise. Even if he’s not around to see this fucker suffer the same horrible fate right there with him, he is not going to be unreasonable anymore. Tilting at windmills is even more of a lost cause if your only purpose is getting milled. So he lets go of what’s left of the kayak and lets the morass take him.

Tim has never before experienced drowning, but he’s sure that it is nothing like what he is currently undergoing. He expected the murky sludge to swiftly travel from his mouth to his lungs. He expected being permitted not to see anything. He is instead embraced in a torturous warmth, his eyes propped open as if with matchsticks, his throat contracted but, somehow, not lethally. There are no words for how excruciating it feels, but the faces of his fellow fallen sailors he is being forced to observe, tell it all. Some of them try to gasp for air, some of them flail their arms despairingly, but most of them display the stolid torpor Tim has quickly adopted for himself. It is not devoid of pain, but it is devoid of spirit.

And then, suddenly, it’s all over and it all starts afresh. Tim doesn’t even know how they all emerged or how the kayaks came back to life. All he knows is that it’s time to relive the ineluctable drowning. Might as well get it over with. He lays down, covers as much of the kayak’s surface as he is able to, closes his eyes, and awaits.

‘It usually takes a little longer, you know.’ The sardonic remark snaps Tim out of his sorry excuse for a nap. ‘Though I suppose you’re doing well. Staying put doesn’t stop it from wobbling, but it does slow down the crumbling. Kind of like a massage chair with a self-destruct button that someone will press for us. When the time comes.’

About five feet from Tim floats a kayak that is slightly darker than his own. It looks as if it has been very poorly painted, and in that, it seems to match the dye job of its occupant.

‘Right, why, oh why, should I have the pleasure to choose the time of my own third death?’ Tim snaps back, his anger resurfacing bashfully, but steadily. Who does this smug goth think he is, a Muddy Grave Necrolympics aficionado? Fuck him.

‘I’m not a fan either, but that’s kind of the point, from what I’ve gathered. Solitude in collective suffering, no control whatsoever, and...’

‘I’m getting real sick of these stupid, pompous reasonings. I don’t give a fuck about why I’m here. The answer is always some magic sadist!’

‘Not your first encounter with the supernatural, then?’ The irony in the goth’s tone gives way to an earnest bitterness.

‘Hah, you could say that.’ Tim bites his lower lip and softens a little. ‘I’m Tim, by the way.’

‘Ger...ry.’

‘Wait… Are you the Gerry Keay? What is this, a company trip? If I see Gertrude here, or...’ He has been trying very hard not to think about it. Neither of them would be here. It is not the kind of world where he gets what he wants in the end.

‘That would be pretty malicious, but I guess they’re not that inventive. Plus, it’s not exactly… for her.’ There is caution in Gerry’s voice, but not one full of hollow pity. A rare thing that Tim, of all people, is very keen to appreciate. ‘I picture Gertrude leading us to our certain deaths rather than joining in on getting tortured. Putting her own self in danger was never much her style.’ Gerry ends with an uneven sneer.

‘ _It is of the utmost importance that you two get eaten alive by a giant puddle of mud. It’s the only way to stop The Spooky Order of The Heebie-Jeebies!_ ’ Channeling the energy of a person he basically only heard on tapes (meticulous preparations for battling The Stranger meant he had had to reconcile with the recorder for a brief moment) is not an easy task, but Tim gives it his best. It’s been a while since he had a chance to do an impression.

‘It’s like she’s right here…’ Gerry sighs, while resting a chin on his hand in a jokingly dreamy manner. The increasingly intense wobbling of the kayak spoils the effect a bit, but not enough to stop Tim from letting out a small chuckle.

‘Admit it, my talents are to die for.’ And there it is. The smirk.

‘I think death is coming whether I like it or not.’ Gerry exhales slowly. ‘Prepare yourself for another round.’

‘Is it always…’ Tim doesn’t get a chance to finish, as his kayak suddenly crumbles into pieces so small they’re basically slivers. He is once again surprised by the immediacy of his submersion. One would think the density of the mud offers some buoyancy, but this feels like macabre cliff diving. His eyes stay open, just as they did before, and the agony he is forced to see and experience is still both painful and distant. He can’t locate Gerry - all the faces have merged into a morbid unit of lethargic affliction, their indiscernibility denying Tim any solace that the sense of community could provide.

‘...always what?’

Tim’s eyes flutter open (when did they close?) and he finds his kayak in its best third-best condition. He also finds Gerry, five feet from him, just as before, tight-lipped and getting (ha!) comfortable.

‘Fuck…’ Tim props himself up on his elbows, struggling to regain coherence.

‘Yeah.’ Gerry nods sullenly. ‘I don’t think you ever really get used to it. You just sort of push through it, more and more mechanically everytime. And I don’t even know if that’s something to be happy about or not.’

‘Well, I’m not happy. And I really, really don’t get why can’t I just have a bloody minute of peace in my life, or after it! What exactly did I do to end up here, huh? It’s not like everyone does! Some people probably get to just chill out, float on clouds or whatever! And me? I only wanted to find out something, anything! And it’s a good thing I had, because I got to reaaally stick it to them… If that’s what I get after everything I had to go through, then fuck this!’ Of course he has to pour his heart out in front of a virtual stranger. Of course there are tears, on top of all that. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just… Every place I find myself in turns out to be some kind of inescapable nightmare. Where’s that “peace in death” you hear so much about?’

‘Dunno, was kinda looking forward to it too.’ Tim remembers the statement featuring Gerry’s strange and rocky relationship with death and suddenly feels very, very stupid. Here he was, whining about interrupted peace, at someone who is practically the world expert at being dead and still here. ‘And it’s fine. Not to say I enjoy your suffering, but you clearly need to vent. We got placed within a hearing range of each other, so you might as well. And it’s not… terrible to have some company in all this. The others were a bit too far from me to make contact. For what it’s worth... I’m sorry. I don’t actually know the details, but I sure as hell know it was traumatizing.’

‘Yeah.’ Tim said very quietly. ‘But you didn’t exactly have it easy either.’

‘I guess not. But I like to think I’d made my peace with the most of it.’

‘That was my plan too, but… I don’t know. Guess I’m still angry.’

‘If it’s any consolation, soon you won’t be.’

Tim doesn’t want to know what that means, so he doesn’t ask. He just keeps talking. About everything. His brother comes up first, but it’s actually Sasha that is the most difficult. He never really had a chance to talk about Sasha before. Nobody would have listened, not really, and, quite frankly, he also wouldn’t have wanted to say. For some reason, it’s easier now, even if he gets regularly interrupted by the scheduled drowning. Gerry was right: it doesn’t get easier. The sweltering, sodden smother, obscuring through its grasp anything that could, in some other world, serve as an anchor. Every emotion that the growing companionship seems to have resurrected yields to the numb agony.

But reemergence always brings the emotions back. Gerry talks too. About his mother. About Gertrude. About the arcane knowledge that has been forced upon him, that had him trapped - giving in to it would mean participating in the cruel spectacle, but giving up on it would mean ridding himself of what made him who he is.

‘Even here, I keep trying to find out what it all means. I don’t even know what the purpose would be. It’s just this weird, weird habit. You know, for a long time I’ve refused to be some _Monster Manual_ , but maybe I’m not as immune to the _wonders of beholding_ as I think I am. And it really, really bothers me.’

‘Hey. If you were a _Monster Manual_ , you’d be a terrible one. I’d only be in it for the funny bits. Completely ignore the horror lore, way too pompous and boring. Also, what’s up with the cover? _This one has been brought to you by our esteemed graphic designer, bootleg Morticia Addams._ ’

‘I’ll have you know my aesthetic is impeccable, Mr. Face Jewels.’ Gerry is completely unabashed, and it gets a fond chuckle out of Tim.

‘Don’t you bring my face jewels into this! They’ve been through enough.’

‘Ugh… Here it comes.’ Gerry’s heartfelt smile fades in a matter of seconds. ‘See you on the same side.’

Tim thought his anger would disappear by now. It probably should have. But its force seems to be multiplying instead. How dare this stupid swamp interrupt their flawless banter? In that moment, when he is getting devoured by this wretched suffocating lump, he decides he will not stand for it. He feels himself getting detached from everything that is actually able to make this place bearable, but his determination does not waver. He just has to wait it out, and then he can say it.

‘You alright?’ Gerry checks on him when they can see each other again, just like he did the last couple of times.

‘Not exactly.’ It comes out more ominous than Tim meant for it to, but there’s no time for trifle assurances. ‘Look, I can’t do this anymore. I won’t just meekly agree to everything this place throws at us. And, Gerry…’ He exhales. ‘I don’t think you should either.’

‘What do you mean?’ Gerry looks completely bewildered. ‘It’s not like we’ve had a choice all along.’

‘Maybe not. But we have to choose it. I have no idea how, but we have to try! Please.’

‘Alright, alright. Where do we start?’

‘Wow, I can really get you to do anything, can’t I?’ Tim hopes the snark would turn attention away from his shallow gasp and the way his face lit up.

‘Yeah, I’m the dazzled fool here.’ No dice, apparently. ‘I haven’t actually had a chance to let you in on what I’ve managed to find out. You know, I think the whole purpose of this place is to teach us…’

‘No.’ Tim says, quickly and sharply.

‘What?’

‘I don’t think reflecting on this place’s moral didactics will do us much good here. It is not our mentor - it is our tormentor. Interacting with its whole fucked-up narrative only makes it stronger.’

‘But we could…’

‘Some things are best left undiscovered, my erudite friend. I don’t want to know. I want to do something. I want… us to be safe. Happy.’

‘Tim…’

‘I mean it. It’s fine if that’s not… what you want, and we can go our separate ways after, but I don’t really see myself doing this without you.’

‘Well, I don’t see myself doing this at all. But with you, I can try.’ Gerry rolls his eyes at the end, for good measure. ‘How do we do it, though? If not by me unleashing my extensive knowledge?’

‘I don’t think it’s going to take a specific plan. There’s not one for this kind of clusterfuck. I think we just have to… resist, in any way we can. Not cooperate, not give in.’

‘Hm. And how do we know if it works?’ Gerry raises his eyebrows.

‘We don’t exactly get to experience a lot here. We will notice a change.’ Tim states unhesitatingly. ‘You know that crippling sensation you get under there? When you feel like nothing and no one matters enough for you to actually move? And all your strength and anger just dissolve into this weird, mucky numbness? Well, I think that’s the worst part. If we can push through that… I’d say we’re good to go.’

‘Okay, I guess nobody said it would be clear and simple. I just… I really hope you’re right.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, me too.’

‘Here it comes…’

‘Gerry, just… Remember this. Me.’

‘I will. And you remember me.’

It is not clear and it is not simple. Going under, Tim is hell-bent on exactly this - remembering. Unfortunately, the nauseating wave of viscid mud is just as hell-bent on him forgetting. And, he has to admit, there is some wicked kind of comfort in that. It is never going to be pleasant. But it can get him to finally, finally stop being so painfully emotional. It lowers the stakes. It shows him the morose consolation of unimportance. There are so many people down there with him, and none of them is special, none of them is recognizable.

But it’s not about the “objective” significance, is it? Importance doesn’t matter. Danny wasn’t important. Sasha wasn’t important. Gerry isn’t important. And they still make Tim feel, and they make him feel whole, right, and furious. He is so full of love and he is so full of anger. He reaches out his hand and he feels someone take it. No, not just someone. He knows exactly who takes it, he couldn’t see it more clearly. Hm. Maybe it is a world in which he can get a little bit of what he wants. As a treat.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](https://panoptykon.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/consumemerism)


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